Absence
by Synchrony
Summary: "So many lives, so many paths: the possibilities of what could happen are almost infinite." Axel and Roxas find their way through lives and worlds. Akuroku.


Wow! I seem to have been gone forever- real life seems to have a funny way of taking over like that. But now things are a little bit calmer, I'm back with something that I actually wrote about a year ago but have been very gradually typing up, because...well, it's kind of long compared to what I usually write. But hopefully you'll enjoy it- I definitely had fun speculating about all the possibilities and problems reincarnation might entail.

Also, because I've been advised that some of my phrases are a bit too slang-ish, here's some explanations if anyone's curious/confused:

**skiving off**- slacking, not working.

**pissing about-** messing about

Feedback is always much appreciated, especially of the concrit variety. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kingdom Hearts (unsurprisingly), and I'm not affiliated with anyone who does (also probably unsurprisingly!). This was written purely for entertainment purposes, which is hopefully what it will achieve!

* * *

In their first life, Axel and Roxas meet as Nobodies: hollow shells of beings, unable to feel, leading some kind of half existence that they and those like them were driven to try to force some meaning into. After all, what is existence if one is made to pass it in some horribly neutral no-man's land, driven half mad by wondering if one is really there at all?

Axel and Roxas meet in the dark depths of The World That Never Was, partners in Organisation XIII. Over time they grow closer, becoming first friends without friendships, then lovers without love, a twisted parody of true being and yet a bond more real than anything else they have. They're inseparable, they're comrades, but they don't feel for each other- they can't feel for each other, no matter how entwined their fates become.

That is why Roxas doesn't hesitate to leave when he decides to search for the truth about himself. That is why Axel resigns himself to killing him when he refuses to return, rather than being turned into a Dusk.

It can't work. _They_ can't work, not like this, not as people that aren't. Roxas will fade, and Axel will too, no matter how hard he searches to bring Roxas back.

The last time they see each other, Axel is slumped in defeat on the other side of the room and Roxas is watching him without expression. Axel manages a grin as he retreats into darkness.

"Let's meet again, in the next life."

"Sure. I'll be waiting."

_Pretty words_, Axel thinks as the face he'll never see again- at least, not here, not now- fades from view, but somehow he knows deep down that they're just going through the motions of existing.

* * *

In their second life, Axel and Roxas are students at the same university, both majoring in history. They share a course, actually, Crusades and Conquests of the Middle Ages, 10 am on a Wednesday. It's a popular course, with two hundred odd students crammed into one of the largest lecture halls on campus, more concerned with catching up with each other after the long summer break than with whatever the lecturer had to say. They sit on opposite sides of the room: Roxas near the front on the right, doodling idly on his notebook, and Axel in the back on the left, wondering if he could make the clock catch fire simple by staring at it so intently for so long.

Notes are taken, reading lists are dictated, hand outs regarding study groups are passed around. They don't see each other.

That night, Axel receives a phone call from home. It's his mother- she's dead. His father is sobbing something about a car crash down the phone, about needing him to come back to help with the funeral arrangements, to help with the kids. Axel stares into space, feeling numb despite how painfully tight he's gripping the phone, and agrees to do the only thing he _can_ do in the situation.

The university is very understanding. Axel drops out, takes a year off and returns the next September to pick up where he left off. Roxas graduates the summer before Axel in their original class. They never have any other lectures together.

Years later, Roxas is clearing out his attic one day when he comes across his old college notes. He flicks leisurely through some notebooks, smiling at the little sketches and the scribbled notes from friends that adorn margins and gaps between facts and figures. Suddenly something slips from between the pages- he's holding the book too loosely for it to stay in place- a sheet of paper, crumpled slightly, black typed words contrasting starkly with the white. He picks it up, scans it curiously, and realises that it's a study group for that Crusades and Conquests course he did back in the second year. His eyes trace over the lists of names, remembering how so-and-so ended up teaching at the uni, and how such-and-such got married to what's-his-name and had about a million children or something, even though they'd claimed to hate each other at the beginning.

His gaze lingers on an unfamiliar name under the list of his own group, narrowing slightly in confusion. _Axel…?_ He'd never met anyone by that name. After a moment, though, it comes to him. Axel was that guy who'd dropped out at the beginning of second year, had to postpone through personal reasons or something.

Roxas wonders idly, casually, what happened to him, whether he ever did return, then slips the sheet back within the pages and tosses the notebook aside to gather dust again.

* * *

Roxas's third life is a long, happy and altogether normal one. He does nothing particularly remarkable: he grows up, goes to school and then college, gets a good job, settles down and enjoys the years with loving family and close friends.

In his later years, he begins to experience some ill health- nothing serious, as he likes to remind people when they seem concerned about him, just a side effect of growing old. It certainly isn't enough, even on a particularly bad day, to stop him from answering the door to the neighbours that have just moved into the house next door.

They're a young couple, probably in their early thirties, looking exhausted from a morning of unloading boxes from the vans, but still all smiles as they shake his hand and introduce themselves. The three of them share some small talk and some laughter before Roxas invites them in for some tea. They decline politely, saying they still have a lot to get on with, but promising to catch up soon. Suddenly the woman, feeling a tug at her coat, looks down and chuckles.

"Oh yes, and this shy little thing here is our son, Axel."

Roxas glances down, only for the smile to freeze on his face. Half hidden behind his mother's leg is a little boy of no more than four or five with flaming red hair, staring up at him unblinkingly with the greenest eyes he's ever seen. It's as if time has ground to a halt as Roxas stares back, something almost like recognition sparking in the back of his mind, though of course that's ridiculous because he's never seen the child before. He wonders why the child is watching him so intently, wonders if he recognises him- though, of course, that's impossible too.

But then all of a sudden time is speeding up again- the couple are saying goodbye, the woman is ushering the boy away towards their own house. Roxas watches them go, hand gripping the edge of the still open door. The boy, Axel, glances back at him with those bright green eyes.

Those eyes unnerve him. There's just something about him, though he can't place what, not even vaguely. Bright green eyes haunt his dreams each and every night without fail.

When Roxas passes away just over a month later, people are saddened but not shocked. He was well into his eighties and had a good run, as they say. He's laid to rest amongst family gone before him and the church is packed out for his funeral service.

Time passes; little Axel grows up. His life is a long, happy and altogether normal one. He doesn't remember the old man that had lived next door when they'd first come to town and wouldn't have known of him at all if his parents hadn't mentioned him once or twice. He never knows how much his eyes had shaken the elderly man and wouldn't have understood even if he had.

That is, until he too is an old man. Walking down the road one day, he passes a young woman he vaguely recognises from living in the same area. She's pushing a buggy; Axel glances down automatically at the child strapped into it, a tiny boy with a mess of dark blonde spikes, contentedly eating a blue ice cream. The boy blinks up at him, revealing the bluest eyes he's ever seen.

Time seems to freeze.

The woman is pushing the buggy onwards; Axel is too stunned to move but can't work out why.

He would have understood then.

Would have.

* * *

In his fourth life, Axel works in a call centre. It's not such an awful job- in fact, he spends most of his time skiving off, playing pranks on his superiors and gaining enough blackmail material around the office to feasibly live off comfortably for the rest of his life. Besides, even when he absolutely _has_ to work, he's good enough at the sales to guarantee himself a few nice bonuses as well as a job for the next month or so, despite all his pissing about. He likes to attribute it to natural charm and charisma; his co-workers like to attribute it to sheer dumb luck.

He doesn't live too far from his workplace, about a half hour's walk, and so it is that he finds himself tracing the familiar route back to his apartment after finishing an early shift one afternoon in July. It's a beautiful day, the sun shining down from a cloudless sky, and he strolls through the streets with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands in his pockets.

His mind flits from this topic to that, but he's snapped from his reverie when he passes by the little white stone chapel on the corner of North Street. Seems there's a wedding party emerging, judging by the men in smart suits and the women in fancy hats- there's one in tears despite her smiles, and Axel figures she must be the bride's mother. He slows a little to take it all in. there's a group of giggling girls all in identical blue dresses who must be bridesmaids; there's the photographer, rushing to set up the camera and get people organised; there's the bride herself, undeniably very pretty, all smiles and dark hair and elegant white gown, and there beside her-

Axel falters, his casual observance exploding into something entirely more.

The groom, standing there beside the bride, is a young man about his own age. His hair is spiky and fair, his eyes are bright blue, and his smile is the most dazzling Axel has ever seen.

He's absolutely beautiful.

Axel's holding his breath without realising it. He's rooted to the spot without knowing it, eyes fixed on the groom as he moves with a strange grace to where the photographer directs him. He's laughing at some joke someone has made- the sound is faint, distant, and yet it echoes in Axel's ears as though he's heard it before somewhere.

And then suddenly the groom looks up at him.

Axel's eyes widen in shock- the man's gaze is all the more hypnotising when aimed directly at him- and he feels his cheeks begin to burn with the shame of having been caught staring. The blonde is no longer smiling- his lips are parting as if to say something-

Axel breaks his gaze at the precise moment the photographer calls for the groom's attention. He starts walking again, heading home faster than before, just desperate to be away and not continue to look like a fool in front of a man he'd never met.

He couldn't know that as soon as the camera had gone off and the crowd reshuffled for another picture, the blonde groom had looked back up in the direction he'd disappeared, not knowing why he suddenly felt so empty.

* * *

In his fifth life, Roxas is ill- desperately so. It's his heart, the doctors say, it's just not strong enough. He's seven years old when he first ends up in hospital for it, but it's certainly not the last visit. In fact, the hospital becomes something of a second home to him, and whilst his childhood friends grow up happy and healthy, Roxas spends days and weeks at a time confined to his bed. His heart will not support him, they say, although they don't say it loud. He'll need another heart, a new heart, if he's to stand any chance of survival.

The chance comes just after his sixteenth birthday in the form of a phone call. They need him to come in as soon as possible: a donor has been found.

The operation goes along as smoothly as can be expected. Roxas is very weak afterwards but growing stronger by the day. The doctors are impressed with his progress. He'll never be quite as healthy as his friends; he may not live as long as them, and he'll be on medication for the rest of his life to stop his body rejecting the new heart- but the important thing is that he's _got_ a new life to look forward to now, and it's the greatest gift he's ever been given.

So when the doctor suggests he might like to consider writing a letter of thanks to his donor's family, Roxas agrees. The letter takes him a week to write, but he's glad he's done it.

He's surprised, though, when a letter arrives for him in return about a month later. They thank him, too, for his kind words and tell him that even though they haven't quite come to terms with their loss yet, knowing it's helped someone else is definitely a comfort. They suggest that perhaps he'd like to visit, if he'd like to learn more about his donor, although they don't expect him to say yes.

He does though, despite his parents' misgivings. His curiosity has been piqued too much. He finds himself wondering what the donor looked like, what they enjoyed doing, whether they were popular, if they had dreams and plans for the future- and how could he not wonder, with their heart beating inside his own chest? So he goes.

The door is opened by a lanky young man with wild red hair and tattoos marking out his eyes. He shakes Roxas's hand, introducing himself by a name that Roxas doesn't quite catch but feels it'd be rude to ask him to repeat, and says he's the donor's brother. He offers to show Roxas his brother's room and Roxas accepts, figuring that the best way to get an impression of the donor would be to see his own personal space.

When he first steps into the room, his mind is desperately trying to keep up with his eyes as they drink everything in. a bed under the window, still unmade; a wardrobe in the corner with open doors, contents spilling out; CD cases stacked haphazardly on the shelves by the stereo, probably none of them containing the right disc; a desk cluttered with books, a laptop perched on top, still open.

"We didn't clear up." the brother says from behind him, by the door. His tone is casual but his voice catches ever so slightly around the words. "Wouldn't know where to start, to be honest."

It seems strange to talk here. The room must have been shut up for a while- the silence has gathered so thickly between the four walls that it seems to have taken on the form of another, a third person, watching them. Roxas turns slowly where he stands. The walls are red, adorned with band posters, gig tickets, photos-

Photos.

Roxas stops.

The places, the situations change, but one thing remains the same: a young man with bright hair and even brighter eyes, smirking at Roxas from another time, somewhere where he can't reach him.

"People said we looked a lot alike." the brother says. "Never really saw it myself though."

Roxas barely hears him- he's too caught up in the pictures. Red and green, pale and dark all mix up in his head until it's impossible to think straight and it's almost all he can do to keep breathing as his heart-

No, wait.

"What was his-" Roxas chokes, can't go further, but the other man understands.

"Axel."

"Axel." Roxas repeats, the name feeling somehow familiar on his tongue. His- no, Axel's- heart wrenches again in his chest though he doesn't know why. He takes a deep breath- the colours seem to slow- and ventures, "How..."

"Motorbike accident." the brother supplies automatically, still trying for all the world to act casual and matter-of-fact. "It was raining that night and...well, we'll probably never really know, but he must have skidded or something and come off. By the time they got him to the hospital...well..." He trails off, not needing to go on.

Roxas nods distractedly, eyes still fixed on the face in the picture directly in front of him. There's a strange sensation building up inside of him, horrendously painful yet horribly numb, and it doesn't feel right for Roxas to stand there in this room, without this stranger- without Axel- there, yet with him at the same time. His shaking hand is halfway to the photo before he realises and jerks it back, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the knowledge that the brother is still watching him intently. He wrenches his gaze from Axel's face and refuses to look back.

He doesn't stay much longer; thanks the brother for his kindness, wishes him all the best, shakes his hand again on the way out. He never tells anyone what happened there, how he'd been overcome by such _feeling_- there was no real name for it, after all, as confusing as it all was- for a complete stranger. He doesn't want them to know how he sees that face in his mind's eye, red and green around a pale face, and how it makes him long for something impossibly more, something he can't name, even as the different heart beats in his chest.

* * *

So many lives, so many paths: the possibilities of what could happen are almost infinite. A different route taken from usual; a lift accepted or not; plans made or unmade. Sometimes they were born into different worlds where they were unaware of any other planes of existence, let alone each other; sometimes it was as simple as turning their head to reply to someone as the other passed by. That was just the way fate worked- randomly- and a thousand or more lives could pass by without them ever noticing anything, except for a vague sense in the backs of their minds that something, somehow, _wasn't quite right_.

Of course, what wasn't quite right was never clear enough for them to know it; sometimes people need the answers in front of them before realisation can strike.

* * *

It's nearly 4 p.m. on a Thursday and Roxas is pissed off. First, he'd woken up thanks to the stupid girls down the corridor running around drunk in the early hours of the morning and keeping everyone awake for ages. Because of that, he'd missed his bus and had _run_ the forty minute walk to campus, only to find out that his seminar had been _cancelled_. Somehow he'd then managed to miss his bus on the way back too and now, to top it all off, the heavens have opened and he's caught in a downpour of epic proportions.

Screw Mondays. It's _Thursdays_ that Roxas hates as he tries to keep his head down, hoping it'll keep him dryer but without luck. People barge into him as they hurry to and fro along the pavement, shooting him dirty looks as their umbrellas catch him, sprinkling him with a fresh load of droplets. The rage is building up inside him until he'd pretty certain he's about to kill someone, so he forces himself to stop and take a deep breath, reminding himself that murder is generally frowned upon in most societies. To distract himself from potentially imminent homicide, he glances at the shops around him, trying desperately to focus on anything else, and realises he's come to a halt outside a café. Right now, caffeine seems like the best idea he's ever had, so he goes inside and isn't even deterred by how crowded it is in there.

Of course, it's more of a problem when he turns away from the counter, coffee in hand. Only then does he realise just how packed the place is- there's no space left. He scans the place hopelessly, wondering if he can double up with someone, though most of the tables seem to already be crammed with people doing just that...there!

There's a booth in the far corner, empty except for a guy about his own age, absorbed in a book. Roxas can see _why_ he's alone- the café is mostly full of young families, mothers with small kids, and the guy _does_ look kind of imposing with that shock of red hair and the tattoos staining his cheeks. Still, it's that or stand about awkwardly, so Roxas heads over.

"Excuse me." The read head doesn't look up; he tries again. "Hey, uhh...mind if I sit here?"

The guy jerks his head up so fast then that Roxas nearly starts; he looks blank for a second, chewing absently on a biro, but then seems to realise enough of what's been asked to remove the pen for long enough to reply "Be my guest, blondie."

He considers retorting but recognises quickly enough that that might leave him seatless, so he bites his tongue and slides onto the bench opposite the red head. As he sets down his coffee and peels off his drenched jacket, he becomes aware that he's being watched intently. He looks up- green eyes burn into his own.

"What?"

The red head's lips twitch into a smirk. "Been for a swim?"

Roxas scowls at him, ultimately too pissed off with the day in general to bother coming up with a sarcastic answer. The red head seems to notice and turns back to his book with a chuckle.

They sit like that for an hour or so, nothing but silence between them. The red-head reads on, green eyes flitting from line to line and occasionally to the writing pad beside him- it looks like he's jotting down notes for an essay or something, though most of the page seems to be filled with little doodles of stick men on fire rather than useful bullet points. Roxas sips his coffee and keeps his gaze fixed determinedly on the windows beside their table, trying to peer past the fogged up pane to see if there's any sign of the rain letting up. The silence is heavy. Neither of them is concentrating.

By the end of an hour, people are leaving the café. Roxas figures the downpour must be at least past it's worst and, with his coffee now long gone, there's not really any reason to put off the rest of his trek back. He glances briefly at the red head before tearing his eyes away almost guiltily. Grabbing his back and jacket, he shuffles along the bench a little.

Green eyes snap up immediately, wide and somewhat confused. "Hey, what's up?"

Roxas is surprised at the softer tone, having not imagined anything but wryness from the older man from his limited experience. "I finished my coffee." he offers somewhat lamely, gesturing to the empty mug. Then, figuring he ought to be polite, he adds, "Thanks...y'know, for letting me sit here and all..."

The red head is setting down his book and pen, frowning, although why exactly, Roxas isn't sure. "But you don't have to-"

"I should head back-" Roxas says hurriedly, standing as he does so, feeling flustered all of a sudden. "See you ar-"

"Wait!"

It happens too quickly for him to see. The red head's hand shoots out, fingers closing around his wrist, and the world stops. It's like fire shooting up his arm, setting every cell of his body ablaze, and as Roxas's vision finally clears, he finds the other looking up at him with wonderment to match his own, as if someone had torn down a wall surrounding the red head and suddenly exposed him to light.

"It's you." the red head breathes, words barely audible. "Roxas...it's you?"

Roxas nods, throat constricting as he forces out the name he suddenly knows. "Axel?"

The red head- Axel- is smiling now, truly smiling, as he pulls Roxas gently to sit back down. They look at each other, both at a loss for what to say or do except take each other in. It's Axel who speaks first.

"It's...been a while, huh?"

Roxas nods. It's as if everything is clear to him now- so many lives, so many paths, so much wondering, deep down, whether something was missing, and he knows Axel must be thinking the same. "I know. But we're here now. We found each other."

Axel laughs. "Yeah, and there you were, ready to walk out on me and all."

"Hey!" Roxas's tone is indignant but he grins as he rotates his wrist in Axel's grasp to hold the man's hand properly. "That's hardly my fault."

Axel still seems amused. "I guess I'll let it drop. On one condition."

Roxas raises an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"From now on, we damn well pay attention to anyone that seems familiar. Got it-"

"Memorised?" Roxas cuts him off, grin widening as he reaches for Axel's other hand. "Sure."

They stay there together long past the rain being over, long past the café emptying, long past darkness gathering. They stay there, hands linked over the table, heads bowed close, making up for a thousand lives or more of unintended lost time.

And when they leave, they go together, hand in hand.


End file.
